Am I Missing?
by OMGITSNATALIE
Summary: She woke in an unfamiliar bed, looking and feeling nothing like herself. See what happens! Bad summary, good story. Please review!
1. A Strange Awakening

**Disclaimer: I own none of this. Except for the bed, and I suppose the other furnishings. Not that it really matters though. But, yeah. Hermione belongs to J.K.R., as do the other characters that will come into play. Though I may throw in a random character of my own. Depends on my mood.**

Long chestnut eyelashes fluttered as she woke. She winced, feeling a throbbing pain at the back of her head. Slowly, her lashes parted, revealing a pair of brilliant brown eyes. The room was cloaked in darkness; only the faint outlines of a desk, chair, and lamp were visible.

Her legs slid wearily from their perch –was it a bed?- to the cold floor beneath. Heaving a sigh, the young woman rose from the warm covers, her legs faltering slightly under her from lack of use. She crossed the room quietly, and her fingers grasped wildly about for the lamp string.

A-ha!

She pulled gently on the metal chain, wincing slightly as a dim light flooded the room. It wasn't much, but at least she could see.

It /had/ been a bed, and a nice one at that. The dark wooden frame rested almost two feet off of the ground, and looked to have been hand-carved. Silk sheets lie rumpled at the foot of the bed, along with the comforter; all a rich green. Dozens of pillows adorned the head of the bed, and a few indents marked where her head had rested; also, of a rich green.

How strange.

Feeling an unexplained chill run down her spine, Hermione clutched her arms. Shocked to find them bare, she looked down. A sigh of relief escaped her upon realizing that she was indeed clothed. She'd never seen the nightgown before in her life, but anything was better than nothing. Not to mention that it was rather comfortable…

Smoothing the skirt of the –you guessed it- green gown against her thighs, the young miss glanced curiously about her room. Well, at least what she assumed to be her room. After all, she had been sleeping there, and there was no one else to be seen.

There was indeed a desk and chair, but what she hadn't seen was the enormous bookshelf, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. Her mouth nearly fell open in awe at the first glance, but she quickly collected herself. There were more pressing issues at hand than which book to read first; for starters, she didn't know where the hell she was. Which could be a problem. A big problem.

"By Merlin!" Hermione exclaimed, catching a glimpse of her reflection for the first time. She looked a right mess.

A thin scar marred her right cheek, stretching naught more than two inches. Still- it hadn't been there before, and, though she'd never been a vain girl, she wholeheartedly wished it weren't there now. A few bruises had begun to yellow on her forehead, and her skin looked much paler than usual.

Frazzled chestnut locks fell just below her shoulders, clumps of dirt and something that suspiciously resembled blood serving as a lacquer, mainly towards the back. But the most shocking change of all was that of her figure.

Now, Hermione had never been a large girl. In fact, she'd always been rather petite. But this…this was scary. Pallid skin seemed to cling to her bones for dear life; she looked as though she hadn't eaten in weeks. A once lithe frame was now gaunt and frail, and her eyes seemed almost hollow as they stared back at her in the mirror. Her gaze dropped to the floor and more importantly, away from what she had become.

Having regained a portion of her famed logic, she moved quickly to the door. It was small, like that of a dungeon, and a dark wood, matching that of her bed. With only mild hesitation miss Granger attempted to turn the doorknob.

It was no use. The door was locked.

She rubbed at her temples in frustrated anxiety, and began to pace.

The objective: Get the hell out of here. Wherever 'here' is.

"If only I had my wand," she muttered, a bit shocked with the raspy quality of her voice. What happened? And why was she here? And in this condition? And how?

A swarm of questions circled her mind, only increasing the intensity of her headache.

But- yes, of course!

She remembered now.

(I apologize for leaving here, but I had to give you some incentive to return for the second installment. I appreciate any review you can give.: Natalie)


	2. The Final Memory

**Disclaimer: Again, not mine. The characters and happenings of J.K.R.'s creation are simply pawns of my weary mind. Speaking of which, this chapter may be a bit confusing; I apologize. This is just setting a background so that we can move forward. I promise that the rest will be far less confusing. (:**

Life in the Wizarding World had undergone a drastic change during the last six years. Though the trio returned to Hogwarts for their seventh year, the school was shut down halfway through the year. Not even Hogwarts was safe anymore; it had become a regular target for Death Eater attacks and recruiting. So, the students were returned to their parents (if they had any left) and the teachers to their homes.

Harry and Hermione had accompanied Ron to the Burrow. There was no way Harry was going back to the Dursleys; that was out of the question. And Hermione?

About a month into the school year, Hermione received a letter from the Ministry. Her parents had been killed in the crossfire between Death Eaters and a handful of Aurors. They did all they could to help the Muggle couple, but they underestimated the number of Death Eaters, and were too overwhelmed to do much good. So, with her trunk and a useless apology from the Ministry, Hermione moved in with the Weasley's.

It was then that Harry decided to search for the Horcruxes.

Hermione, Ginny, and Ron had followed, despite Harry's obvious disapproval. Together they thought they were invincible. How wrong they had been.

Ginny was the first to die. Bellatrix dealt the fatal blow, and it was all Hermione could do to keep from crying as her fiery-haired friend fell cold to the ground. They'd buried her later, after the battle had come to a close. Though she and Ron had expected Ginny's death to injure Harry, he didn't show it. He didn't even cry. He just kept walking, his face blank, eyes masking their pain with rage.

That was the day he left, alone, to fight Voldemort.

Hermione hadn't seen him since; neither had Ron. But that was five years ago. The Dark Lord now had total control over the Wizarding World, and ruled it with a firm, merciless hand. Though there were still those who opposed his rule, most had been killed shortly after the 'final battle'. That's what they called it; Harry's dying at the hands of Voldemort. The Chosen One was defeated, though the details were a bit vague.

Muggles and Muggle-borns had been enslaved and/or killed. Only purebloods roamed freely in the streets, and even they were fearful. The Dark Lord had spies all over, and it wasn't uncommon for Death Eaters to stir up trouble with the hopes of a gruesome murder to appease their boredom.

Hermione stayed with Ron and his family, hidden in an underground cavern. After his parents' death, Ron moved to a flat in London, taking his new fiancé with him. Yes, he'd finally overcome his nerves, and proposed to Hermione after four years of kind-of dating. That was a year ago.

She'd left early one morning for the market, thinking nothing of it. Ron was still asleep, so she slipped out quietly, with a few galleons and her jacket. It was a beautiful autumn morning; a few wispy clouds hovered serenely amid a beautiful blue sky. Hardly a soul was awake, and so her grocery trip had gone quite smoothly. Dry leaves crackled under her feet as she returned to their flat.

She rummaged through her pockets for her key, two grocery bags hanging round her forearm. It was then that she noticed that the door was already open. Pulling her wand from her inner pocket (she always took it with her, just in case), Hermione stepped cautiously into the flat, eyes searching frantically for a familiar mop of red hair.

'He'll be here,' she thought, wand pressed against her thigh as she slowly crossed their front room. 'Just don't panic. He's fine. I probably just forgot to shut the door. Don't panic.'

She screamed when she saw him. The grocery bags fell to the ground as her eyes welled up with tears. He was on the kitchen floor, eyes clouded over as they stared up to the ceiling. His wand was a few feet away, narrowly evading his outstretched hand. The place was in shambles; furniture was overturned; it looked as though someone had heaved their blender into the wall; food stained the tiled floor, spilling effortlessly out of the open refrigerator.

Tears streaming down her face, Hermione rushed over to Ron, placing two fingers on his neck to check for pulse. He was alive; barely, but alive nonetheless. She smiled, relieved, though the tears kept coming. Wand in hand, she Apparated them to one of the few safe places left in the Wizarding World; St. Mungo's Hospital. The doctors assured her that they'd do all that they could as they took him from her, asking her to please wait in the waiting room. After what seemed like a year, a doctor returned, giving the okay for her to see Ron.

Ron smiled weakly as Hermione entered, though even that hurt. His entire body ached, despite the numerous pain-relieving incantations performed.

"I'm alright. Just a few scratches," he said after a minute of silence. Hermione's cheeks were tear-stained and pale; her eyes were red, puffy and anxious. It hurt him to see her this way, hence the joking. It drew a quick, painful smile that faded after a few seconds. But he knew that it was far worse than 'a few scratches'. He explained to her what the doctor had told him; he'd be in the hospital for a while, a few months at the least.

"I'm fixable, but it will take while," he began. "Will you wait for me?" Ron asked nervously.

Hermione grabbed his hand, placing it gently on her cheek, and nodded. They both smiled.

Two months passed, and Hermione visited him everyday, anxious for an update on his condition. It was lonely without him, not to mention dangerous. She was a Muggle-born, and thus needed to remain 'under the radar', which became much harder when flying solo.

She'd kissed him before she left that night -how long ago had it been?-, completely oblivious to what awaited her at home. A quick Apparation later, Hermione was out of St. Mungo's and back home. She turned the doorknob slowly, still cautious, as she entered their home. Somehow, their flat seemed less inviting after Ron's attack.

It wasn't until she'd removed her coat that Hermione sensed another presence. She remembered three hooded figures, and one wand, pointed in her direction. She must have blacked out, because when she woke up, she was here; wherever that may be.


	3. First Try

She definitely had it with her that night –perhaps in her coat pocket?-, though she doubted that they would leave her…

It would seem she had overestimated the intelligence of her captor. Or captors.

'One thing at a time, Hermione,' she thought, taking a deep breath. 'Just one thing at a time.' No good could come from worrying.

Keeping on tip-toes, Hermione edged toward the opposite corner of the room where a familiar bundle lay, tossed haphazardly on the ground. A faint glimmer of hope sparked in her eyes as she bent down. Yep- those were hers; her pants, her shirt, and her coat. She felt a wave of nausea at the thought of a stranger undressing her, but it passed quickly as she withdrew a wooden rod from the pile of clothes.

Thank Merlin.

She debated whether or not to change into her own clothes, but opted against it. Her captor could walk in at any moment, and she needed to be ready. First find a way out. She could always buy new clothes later.

Still, she grabbed her coat. You never know when it could come in handy.

Hermione draped the brown trench over her shoulders, grasping her wand in sweaty palms. Nerve-wracking was the best description. She had no idea of what awaited her outside this door, but it was worth a shot.

"Alohomora," she whispered, pointing her wand at the locked door. There was no click; no hint of any change.

Slowly, Hermione reached for the doorknob, a brown curl falling from behind her ear as she did so. She didn't even notice. With two hands, she turned the doorknob with ease, and breathed a satisfied –but still quiet- sigh. Good. She was out.

Quickly, she poked her head out of the doorframe, glancing anxiously from side to side. The corridor was dark and as finely decorated as her room. Dark marble lined the ground, scrubbed to a perfect shine. Portraits and tapestries adorned the walls, interrupted by the occasional unlit torch. The ceilings were high, with an almost gothic design. Still, the corridor was empty- that was the important thing.

With that in mind, Hermione stepped cautiously into the corridor, shutting the door quietly behind her. No use tipping anyone off to her escape. She stopped for a moment to adjust her coat before stepping barefoot down the corridor. Her wand felt slimy in her hands, by fault of her nervous sweating. It wasn't the first time she'd been in imminent danger, but it _was_ her first time facing said danger alone.

Enveloped in the darkness of the corridor, it was hard to make out much around her, though she kept a wary eye out for any sign of movement. She stayed close to the wall, and low so as not to wake any portraits. This was unfamiliar territory, and there was no saying whose side the portraits were on. Unfortunately for her, if there were any windows, they had already been covered; Hermione had no idea what time it was.

Amid the eerie stillness, and with no company but her own fear, the young woman quietly approached the corner. She pressed her wand into her chest, mentally preparing herself for battle, as she stole a quick glance into the intersecting corridor. She would have to choose; left or right.

"And where do you think you're going?"

A voice called from behind her, strong and equally cold. Wait…didn't she know that voice?

She spun around quickly, pointing her wand shakily before her.

"Expelliarmus," the man said, and Hermione felt her wand rocketing from her hands, falling with a sharp clap to the floor.

It was still dark, and she squinted, trying with great fervor to make out the figure before her. His voice sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. Whoever he was, she bloody well knew that she didn't like him. What with the kidnapping and all.

There was another utterance of words, but before she could comprehend the sounds, she fell to the ground. The last thing she saw before blacking out for the second time was a malicious glint of grey.

**(The next chapter will be from another's point of view, though I'm sure you can guess by now who that 'someone' is.)**


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